The Musgrave Ritual
by smartnsweet1
Summary: Greg House's first case...is his own.


THE MUSGRAVE RITUAL

The metal of the Colt's cylinder felt soothingly cool against Greg's throbbing jaw. He rocked back and forth on the edge of the bed, rhythmically stroking his cheek with the .22 for a few minutes, before falling back onto the mattress with a choking sob.

The blood spatter would make an intriguing contrast to the blue of his uniform, he imagined—he didn't know the word "reticulated" then. Patients with Fifth's Disease would always bring him back to the darkness of that room, and the desperation of his choices.

Greg slowly sucked the barrel of the handgun towards his mouth. He couldn't be sure if the metallic taste came from the gun or from his bleeding lip. _This_ is a last meal, he thought, and almost smiled.

As his fingers moved to the trigger, the gun rested against his open wound, gifting him with a jolt of pain that radiated across his face. He allowed himself a small cry, but blinked back the tears that welled up in his tightly shut eyes. The second time, he pressed the barrel onto the wound with some force. It was important to fully experience the pain, and not to violate the silence.

It was now time. Opening his eyes for one last look at the dimly lit room, Greg adjusted his grip and positioned his index finger on the trigger. It was now time.

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"Hey," Wilson asked as he shot his head around the door. "You could've answered the door."

House quickly stuffed the picture back into the drawer and looked up. "I knew it. You made a copy."

"No, I got it from your lock box, Sherlock." Wilson threw the key at the desk and headed for the kitchen. "Burglars love them, you know."

The key slipped through House's fingers and landed by his feet. Kicking it to one side, House reached for his cane and followed Wilson. "There _is_ a code…"

"Leiden. Want a beer?"

Disgusted, House turned on his heel and limped back into the sitting room. He dropped into a chair with a snort, and glared at Wilson as he eased onto the couch.

Wilson gulped down several ounces before giving House a broad smile.

House said unenthusiastically. "The respiratory therapist?"

"No…"

House sighed. "Is she bigger than a breadbox?"

"In some places," Wilson grinned.

House leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. Wilson would spill it all by himself. And quickly, as was his wont.

The creak behind him was unexpected. He sat up—Wilson was gone. "Hey!"

Wilson quickly closed the desk drawer, the photo in his hand.

House lunged from his chair, successfully tackling only his desk. Wilson had easily escaped to the kitchen. House winced as he hobbled over to his cane. He winced again when he heard the low-pitched giggle.

Wilson was still chortling when he inched back into the room, displaying the picture. The clean-shaven young man with the wavy hair and the piercing blue eyes was a grim, uniformed avatar.

"Army?"

House averted his gaze. "Navy. Junior ROTC."

"Ah." Wilson studied the photo. "The 'Cap'n' must've liked that."

House sat back down on the couch, his back to Wilson. "I was 16."

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Greg gasped for breath. His chest racked with pain, his muscles screaming in agony. One more burst of effort and he could make it… He stretched out his arms as he fell, trying in vain to reach the undulating blue surface above him, to feed his oxygen-starved body. Hitting the ground, he coughed a geyser of bloody sputum, and then remembered nothing.

Consciousness returned slowly, with the blurred perception of light and sound before form. White walls, white sheets, white angels. Heaven as contemporary furniture design. Heaven as prison. Greg tugged against his restraints, but was only rewarded with a stab of pain from his right lower chest and his ipsilateral leg. His groans faded into a few more hours of sleep.

"How are you feeling?"

Greg opened his eyes to see them looking back at him from the face of his mother. The faint scent of alcohol tickled his nose, and he blinked several times to clear his vision before replying, "What happened?"

"They don't know," Mrs. House sat back in her chair, careful not to disturb the pristine white linens on Greg's bed. "Pneumonia is what they're saying, but…they don't know."

Greg tried to move his arms once again, to no avail. "Can you take these things off?"

"Commander Bennett said he'd be back this afternoon. We shouldn't…inconvenience him now."

Greg didn't bother to nod. "Is Dad here?"

"The doctors say you can go home by next week," Mrs. House continued lightly, "but they do want you to rest as much as you can."

Greg looked at her—she dropped her eyes, and clutched her handbag closer to her chest. For just a moment, her sleeve slipped back on her forearm, and she quickly pulled the fabric back over her wrist to hide the bruises.

Her voice had an angry edge now. "How could you!"

The tightness in Greg's chest returned. Armor for the natural question to follow. "What?"

She pursed her lips, now as white as her face, and said with more than a trace of sarcasm, "Your father's son."

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Commander Bennett was even taller than Greg's father, towering over the prone young man who lay shackled on the bed, a stentorian judge and executioner. As Officer of the Day, he had the task of informing J. Gregory House, III, of the charges against him. Possession of marijuana, laced with PCP, found in his locker. Off base, probably nothing more than probation and a few months of group therapy. On base, likely a stint in juvie and permanent expulsion from Junior ROTC. _You can forget Annapolis. And you should have expected your actions would have a significant effect on your father's military career. Was it worth it?_

Greg stared, uncomprehending.

"Was it worth it?" Bennett asked again.

Under the sheets, Greg cleched his fists. He'd stopped smoking everything when he'd joined the track team—it cut his wind. How could they think he'd won so many meets using grass? How could they think he'd be stupid enough to keep it in his locker? Greg looked around at the accusing faces around his hospital bed, his mother's among them, and said tersely, "Fuck you all."

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The discharge summary gave PCP intoxication as the primary diagnosis. The lung atelectasis was ascribed to fibrosis from chronic substance inhalation—the right lower lobectomy had successfully removed the damaged tissue. The urine drug screen had been borderline for cannabinoids—20 ng/ml. The doctors admitted they should have done the test immediately upon admission, not a day later after the stash was found.

Greg was processed and discharged into his parents' custody with a minimal amount of bail. His father could still call in some markers on base.

The family drove home in angry silence. The Captain's only words to his son were an order after their arrival home to go to his room and wait. Greg's legs felt leaden as he shuffled down the hallway to his door. Dead man walking, he thought, as his right hand instinctively reached down to massage a recurrent twinge in his right calf. Glancing back at the shadows of his parents, Greg stood up straight and walked the final few steps briskly. I'm not going to let him see me hurt.

In his room, Greg's eyes fell on his trophy shelf. T-Ball, Little League, Cross-Country. He stood in front of them for just a moment before sweeping them off the shelf to crash onto the floor. One hit the hardwood and shattered, the batter's head rolling off the statue and into a corner of the room. He let out a sound halfway between a sob and a laugh, and threw himself on his bed.

The hour lasted an eternity. Even his headphones couldn't drown out the shouts of his parents' "discussion"—nor stop the shivers he felt every time the house walls shook from his father's underscoring banging. Finally, too soon, it was quiet—except for the heavy footsteps coming down the hall.

Greg looked at the window, and thought about making his escape. His surgical scars were still aching, his muscles still stiff, but, if he went out feet first, he could probably make a run for it...but not off base…

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Better to get it over with now. He stood up and faced the door as it opened. His father stood tightly framed in the door jamb, eyes flashing, gripping in his right hand his heaviest leather belt.

"Skivvies, Mister," he barked.

Greg nodded and tried to steady his trembling hands as he unbuttoned his shirt.

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The pain of his beating was nothing compared to the humiliation of seeing Will Bennett appointed the new leader of Greg's cadet class upon his return to school. Will would now also take Greg's place on the varsity track team, the baseball team, and probably in Cheryl's arms. It was all so fing unfair…he had tried so hard to be all they wanted him to be.

By day's end, eager to escape the intrusive questions and taunts of his classmates, Greg sought solace alone in a dusty, deserted corner of the schoolyard. He gingerly sat down on the dirt-covered concrete and leaned his still-tender back against the custodian's corrugated aluminum shed. He reached for a small twig next to his hand, and resting his head on his knees, began to doodle with it in the sand.

"Hey, there, son. Whatcha doin'?"

The tremulous voice startled Greg. He looked up to see a small, wizened man in a stained khaki uniform carrying a large broom.

"Hi, Mr. Musgrave." Greg smiled. "Throwing myself on the sand…"

Musgrave looked puzzled for a moment then said generously, "Well, let me clean it up for you."

Greg couldn't resist a chuckle. He stood up slowly, favoring his right leg, and gently brushed off his jeans. "Thought you were done for the day."

"Never done," Musgrave replied quickly as he swept the dirt onto the mud and grass next to the concrete. "Always something more to check." His sweeping became even more vigorous.

"Uh, it looks pretty clean…"

"Gotta make sure." Musgrave gave Greg another pointed look, "They think I'm nuts, but I check 'em all. Every door, every lock, every night." The man resumed his intensive sweeping.

"O-kay." Greg looked at his watch and decided to pack up his books and head for his Arctic home.

"See if I didn't check things, we coulda had a robbery last week."

"No kidding." Greg's stomach growled. _What could I make for dinner tonight…?_

"I swear that door was unlocked. Who knows what they might've stolen."

There was a can of soup in the pantry Greg was certain. Maybe even some noodles. "What?" Greg spun around to face the custodian.

"That door." Musgrave pointed at the side entrance to the north classroom wing. "Open. Unlocked. If I didn't double check--"

Greg grabbed the man with both hands. "When was this?"

Musgrave's voice shot up an octave. "A week or two ago, I guess."

"The date!" Greg cried. "What day?"

Greg didn't need to hear the answer.

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_Cui bono?_ Greg took a clean piece of paper and a black marker and started to make a list. Will Bennett, for sure. And his martinet of a father. Will gets on the fast track to Annapolis and the Commander gets a shot at undermining Dad. A two-fer. It wouldn't be hard. Will sees him go down at the practice, runs home a block in the chaos and gets the dope, and then hides in the Boys' until Musgrave locks up for the night. He goes to the locker, slips the joints through the locker vents, and slips out the side door. He…can't lock it because it's a bolt and you need a key from the outside, so he leaves it unlocked. And, he wears gloves the whole time, so no prints.

Greg stared at the paper, then drew a line through the Commander's name, and two lines under the word martinet. As for Will, the whole deck of cards is contingent on Greg's collapsing in the first place. How could Will guarantee that?

Greg leaned back in his chair and tossed his baseball in the air a few times, pondering the question. Whoever planted the grass either had to know he was going to collapse…or had something else in mind…

Greg took another piece of paper and began a new list—his activities working back from the practice. Changing in the locker room at the gym. Dumping his trig and social studies books in the hall locker. No dope. Trig and social studies. Lunch with Cheryl. Lunch with Cheryl…

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"Why not?"

"Dad's shipping out the next day. We always do a family thing for dinner." Cheryl smiled back at him ruefully.

"Okinawa?" mumbled Greg through a large bite of his hamburger.

"Uh huh." Cheryl nibbled at her sandwich. "Only 12 months. When's your father getting reassigned?"

"Uncle Elmo's new Navy," Greg added without enthusiasm, "He'll be here at least another year."

"Oh." Cheryl looked down at her plate. Greg inched his hand towards hers. If only Cheryl could adore him as much.

"Look, why don't we hit a movie Saturday, help you forget?"

"No." Her eyes glistened. "I can't."

"Your mom can take care of herself for a couple of hours. They're used to it."

Cheryl rose suddenly and grabbed her tray. "No, Greg. I can't."

Without waiting for a response, she turned and walked away.

Greg stood by the table alone, surrounded by the laughter from the adjacent table of Will and his friends.

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She hadn't been at school today. Somebody said it was the flu. He had to talk to her. And he was grounded for a whole month. The window beckoned, but the soreness in his back kept him in his room. Tomorrow at school would do.

Greg went back to his list and added the sequence of his morning classes. Nothing unusual happened that he could recall that day, not even at home. Dry cereal, stuff the homework in the backpack, check out Dad's room with the dime-bouncing-made bed, check out Mom's room with the snoring mound of blankets and the empty glass on the night table, then out the door. Nothing unusual.

The day before was a different story. Or rather the evening before. He'd come home after practice and finished the last of his homework relatively quickly. There was a slice of pizza from two days ago in the refrigerator—Greg scarfed it down cold. A peek in the living room: Mom had a fresh glass of wine and a new episode of Dallas. And Dad was off at work.

Greg eased quietly out the door and jogged the half-mile to Dick, the closest of the teen-made escape tunnels from the base. Cheryl would be waiting for him at the party, so he increased his pace and arrived at the ramshackle house in 15-20 minutes. The woofers massaged his skin as he loped up the front stairs with conscious rebellion against the rhythm of the beat. He had tried to introduce Cheryl to jazz to no avail.

The inside of the house was dark and dank with the smell of sweat and beer and weed. Every room, closet, and hallway seemed packed with undulating masses of young people—finding Cheryl would be a challenge in the crowd. Will was the first one he recognized, sitting on the floor in the back corner of a back room with his usual claque passing around a joint. There were several girls hanging on boys in the group—it took Greg several minutes in the dimly lit room to identify the head in Will's lap as Cheryl's.

Will dramatically put an arm around Cheryl's chest holding her down as she opened her eyes and looked up at Greg. Her eyes were bloodshot and her words were slurred as she attempted a greeting.

"Let her go," Greg commanded. "Now."

Will took a toke from the cigarette and leaned over and gave Cheryl a long, deep kiss. She pushed him away fruitlessly, her arms falling limply to her side. Greg dove at the couple, pulling Will's head back by his ears and reaching for Cheryl's shoulders.

"She said 'no'," Greg shouted as Will released her and lunged at him. Cheryl staggered up and leaned unsteadily against the wall.

Will's head hit Greg squarely in the abdomen. Greg was grateful for the months he had spent doing sit-up after sit-up—the blow caused Will to cry out in pain. The youths squared off against each other, landing and dodging punches as they weaved among the raucous crowd. Greg's training in boxing was giving him an obvious advantage as he maneuvered closer and closer to Cheryl and whispered for her to run.

Cheryl lurched towards the room door, with Greg as a formidable shield as the two wended their way through the maze of partygoers. Will would have quite a shiner tomorrow, Greg thought, and should have a doctor look at his bleeding nose. The wave of partiers closed behind them, and Greg turned and guided Cheryl towards the front door. As they reached the front hall, Greg was astonished to see Will at his side, brandishing a large poker which clipped him on his right leg. Greg shouted for Cheryl to get out of the house, as he grabbed the end of the heavy weapon blocking its trajectory towards his head. With a burst of effort, Greg pulled the poker from Will's hands and, holding it up to defend his withdrawal, ran out the door and down the steps towards Cheryl.

The fresh air had revived the young woman somewhat. She mumbled a barely audible, "Thank you."

"What the hell are you on?" was Greg's irritated question.

"Just a coupl'a beers."

"Shit." Greg put an arm around her shoulders and let her lean against him as they walked.

With a groan she pitched forward and vomited into the grass. Greg gently stroked her hair as she heaved, then helped her back to her feet with practiced ease.

"Just a coupl'a beers…" He mumbled quietly. Louder, he added, "I'll take you home."

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Greg rubbed the spot on his calf where Will's poker had hit its mark. The area wasn't bruised, but, over a week later, it still hurt more than the more recent welts on his thighs. He felt his leg more carefully—it seemed slightly swollen as compared to his left side. And a little warmer, too.

He hopped over to a pile of books strewn next to his desk. Mr. Lange's book was buried under the paperbacks he still had to read for English. Greg pulled out the heavy volume and gave a silent thanks to his very cool Science teacher. Medicine wasn't in the script—or the curriculum at Annapolis—but it wouldn't hurt to check out battle wounds and how they play out.

Contusion—Greg liked the sound of the word. So much better than "sucker punch". His eyes darted from page to page, grabbing words and clutching them so they wouldn't flee. A new piece of paper, a black marker, a new list grew by his side. And then he took the list and paced, silently playing the music of the magic words he'd written over and over with a crescendo of intensity that culminated in a joyous shout.

His father's room was still empty, the bed untouched. His mother had fallen asleep, and even Greg's enthusiastic shaking didn't easily rouse her. When she finally acknowledged his presence, he spurted out his question, "Did they do a blood gas?"

It took several tries for his mother to respond. They'd called her a few hours after his admission, she remembered. At least that's when she answered the phone. "I think they did a chest X-ray. I don't know. I didn't ask."

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Greg skipped school for the first time in over a year to visit the JAG Corps office on the base. Lt. Commander Monroe was impressed with the young student's hypothesis and agreed to help him with the necessary research and review of his records. The trial would be in a few weeks, and Greg was finally seeing a glimmer of hope.

The review was damning. The flight surgeon on duty in the base hospital ER had few tools and less experience. No CT scan or MRI, no ventilation/perfusion scan, no Doppler ultrasound, a frustratingly old X-ray machine, and a primitive laboratory that was limited by its evening staff dinner shifts. No blood gas had been done initially, and the general surgeon was eager to simply crack a chest and then go home as soon as possible. The true diagnosis was confirmed by the Bethesda hematologists after examining Greg—hereditary resistance to activated protein C. The trauma to Greg's leg from the fight at the party had resulted in a deep venous thrombosis that had thrown loosened clots to the right lower lobe of his lung, blocking the flow of oxygen into the bloodstream.

Greg's anticoagulant therapy reduced his risk of further lung damage, but effectively washed him out of JROTC and ended any hopes of a military career. Lt. Commander Monroe's attempts to have the charges dropped on Greg's behalf were unsuccessful. Prosecutors responded that his new diagnosis did not explain the presence of marijuana in his drug test, and, more importantly, in his locker. A trial date was confirmed for the coming week before the local juvenile court judge.

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Greg tore his JROTC uniform off of its hanger. He had no use for it anymore. He'd wear it just as a favor for Commander Monroe. The fit was wrong, his longer hair now teasing the collar. He shoved his hands in the pockets—another demerit offense—and pulled out the paper with his list of "suspects".

Smoothing out the paper, he grabbed his marker and sat down at his desk. Will Bennett was still an active suspect, no question. Even if he couldn't predict Greg's collapse, he was capable of taking advantage of it for sure. He added the words 'unlocked door' followed by an exclamation point.

Anyone could have remained in the school after hours and slipped in the drugs. But what would anyone other than Will have to gain by framing him? Greg chewed on his marker—he was missing something, but what?

Greg sat up. How had they known to check in his locker? The prosecution's briefs clearly cited that the school administration had opened the lock with a release key—but what had triggered the search in the first place? What if it hadn't been his collapse?  
Greg's father appeared in the doorway in full dress uniform, bearing a raft of medals on his chest. His voice was steady and firm. "It's time."

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The prosecution's case was straightforward. Presence of marijuana, albeit a small amount, detected in the drug screen. 3 marijuana cigarettes laced with phencyclidine found in the defendant's locker. The latter was enough for a felony conviction in the state.

Lt. Commander Monroe began the defense with an expert witness on drug testing who testified convincingly that borderline drug tests were possible with secondary inhalation of marijuana smoke, such as at, oh, a party. Monroe then called his next witness, School Custodian Reggie Musgrave.

In a trembling high pitched voice, Musgrave related his discovery of the unlocked door. In light of this discovery, Monroe argued, the evidence found in Greg's locker was circumstantial, and could have been planted by anyone.

Greg was never called to the stand. After each side's summary and rebuttals were completed, the judge briefly adjourned the court to review the presented facts of the case in private quarters with the attorneys.

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Greg sidled up to the Custodian as the defense group huddled outside the courtroom. "Uh, thanks for coming, uh, to my…thing."

"Sure. You're a good kid. And you don't think I'm nuts," Musgrave responded.

Greg smiled. "You know I've got this medical book Mr. Lange gave me…" He hesitated, practicing the term in his head before continuing. "I think you've got OCD."

Musgrave frowned. "What?"

"Obsessive-compulsive—you always gotta double check."

"Your medical book. Does it say I'm nuts?"

Greg shook his head. "Not if it doesn't bother you. They say it's actually pretty common, especially among doctors."

Musgrave laughed.

"Uh, Mr. Musgrave. Why'd they open my locker?"

The Custodian looked away for a moment. "I didn't mean to get you in trouble."

Greg's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?"

"Well," Musgrave hesitated, "it's not just the doorknobs. You see I always walk down the hall at the end of the day and make sure all the lockers are closed tight. That night, your locker door was a little pulled out. I knew something was wrong."

A flash of anger swept over Greg and he turned away to regain control of his feelings and avoid frightening the little man. Taking a deep breath, he turned back and calmly asked, "Anything else?"

"Like what?"

"You've got a good eye. Did you notice anything else…anything different…that night?"

Musgrave scratched his head. "Come to think of it, I did," he answered slowly. "I remember now, in the hallway, and the gym. Sweet, a sweet smell…like a candy apple."

Monroe appeared at the courtroom door and announced it was time to return inside. Greg didn't hear him the first time. Or the second.

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The judge ruled in favor of the defendant for lack of proof beyond a reasonable doubt. However, calling on Greg to come forward, she made the ruling contingent on Greg being periodically tested for drugs and alcohol over the next two years. If his tests remained negative, Greg would be free of the court's jurisdiction with his file permanently closed at age 18.

The ride back to Greg's house was as usual frigidly silent. The Captain didn't even bother to drive the car into the garage…"I'll be leaving for work". Greg's mother paused by the kitchen and looked him up and down. Her eyes reddened, and she turned away. Greg didn't wait to hear the liquor cabinet open—he hid in his room and, as soon as his Dad's car drove away, climbed out of the window and snuck through a hole in the backyard fence.

Cheryl's house was a 15 minute jog using the street. Through the backyards, he could shave 6 or 7 minutes off his time. The pain in his calf was almost gone, but it did make his vaults a bit more precarious, so ten minutes had elapsed before he reached the back yard of Cheryl's bungalow. Cheryl would be walking back from school now. Greg crept alongside the house and across the front lawn. He crouched behind a large hedge near the corner of the street to wait.

Suddenly, the glint from a car parked just around the corner caught his eye. He gasped. Was the license—yes, the same. Waves of anger washed over him, and he gave up any pretense of control, storming back to the side of Cheryl's house and banging on her parents' window, until two strong arms raised the pane.

Face to face with his father, Greg was shorn of words. Neither man spoke nor broke their gaze. Finally, his father turned away from the sill and said to Cheryl's mother. "Close the window, Linda. It's cold."

Greg saw the shadow out of the corner of his eye. How long had Cheryl been standing there? Greg snorted. _Of course she knew_.

Greg finally turned and faced her. "It didn't work. Why don't you just call your father?"

Cheryl's face was streaked with tears, "I'm sorry, Greg. I'm…"

Greg didn't look at her as he walked by. "Fuck you."

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Greg took the sidewalk route back home. The front door was open when he arrived at his house, and he entered and slammed it shut.

His mother stood outside the door to his room, anger blazing in her eyes. The familiar scent of alcohol pervaded the hallway. Greg stopped and faced her, searching for a shred of comfort in her gaze.

He didn't expect the blows. A hard right to his jaw and another to his lip. He felt the searing pain and tasted the salt and the blood. _I love you, too._

His mother fell against the wall, her body wracked with sobs, her hands clawing the faux wood paneling writing words only she could hear. Greg walked past her and entered his room, closing and locking the door behind him.

He had hidden the gun the night of his beating. His father hadn't even noticed it was missing yet. Maybe he'd had other things on his mind. Greg tenderly lifted the handgun from the drawer, his hands caressing it gently for a few moments as he slowly shuffled towards his bed. The metal of the Colt's cylinder felt soothingly cool against Greg's throbbing jaw…

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Wilson shivered and blinked. "Why didn't you...uh? I mean…" his outstretched hands pointed at House.

"It wasn't time," House said quietly. "It wasn't time."

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